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run on sentences

Sometimes thoughts take the form of run on sentences which fill space like too tightly packing a suitcase stuffed to the brim with unnecessary items certainly not brought for the purpose of being used so much as for the fear of being left behind in a shadowed corner crowded with cobwebs uninhabited by any small lonely creature that may have once wandered those warped floorboards creaking unceasingly as a father tries to sleep and dreams of travelling through curvy German alleyways and expansive jungle mountains traversed by elephant riding mystics offering opium in twisted tents in which misty tendrils of smoke drip from carefully crafted pipes like the tender trailing trunks of whispering mysteries that spiral through the hazy space smothering the silence until a sound dissipates the spell of slumber and the idyllic escape is replaced by the echoes of a restless child cautiously avoiding the ancient planks who cry like sirens in the eyeless night which pervades the air like humid hands oppressively pressing the peeling paint as they tear apart the poorly tied twine holding together tawny parchment paper wrapped haphazardly around a wispy soul disheartened by the deep unsettling darkness darting with mental monsters manifested like embers from a flickering fire of fear fueled by kindling of insecurity hewed helplessly from the cracked limb of a dying tree of doubt whose sooty skin dematerialises into dust that drifts listlessly in the emptiness until it settles on a shelf next to balsa wood fossils and picture frames with nothing in them but memories long submerged in that blissful oblivion we all seek as we grip our sheets after the sun has fled to rest in peace while sedatives sit digesting in writhing stomachs never working well enough to snuff the crackling candle of disconcerting confusion consuming the threads we grip with weathered hands in helpless hope of something more solid than swirling sand sliding smoothly across the glass through which reflections watch as footsteps fall in search of comfort warm enough to thaw the glacial isolation creeping over flowering obsidian surfaces like frost feeling the face of a statue in the snow that flows like oceans blowing slowly willing rolling ripples aglow with hollow fish of jelly floating mindless in the endless belly of inky tranquility lilting wistfully in amorphous forcelessness as Morpheus kisses wilting minds until they wake and seek the solace of a mother working in the morning only to be banished by the rumbles of an immovable object offering independence at the cost of innocence that glimmers faintly as it trails away like the end of a run on sentence... 


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